


you say no, i say repeat

by Cunninglinguist



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Violence, Bodily Fluids, Bondage, Brutality, Community: theoldguardkinkmeme, Dark, Dark!Booker, Graphic Description, Hurt Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Hurt No Comfort, Jealousy, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, Kidnapping, M/M, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Whump, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Smut, Unrequited Booker/Nicky, Unrequited Crush, Violence, Voyeurism, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27424117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunninglinguist/pseuds/Cunninglinguist
Summary: It’s going on three days since the gang had taken Nicky, and the concern amongst the team is reaching a fever pitch.Joe is beside himself. He blames himself for the capture, distraught that he had been across the property with Booker at the time, rigging crates of illegal weapons with explosives. He’s pacing now, hat in his hands, hair wild, going out of his mind with an anxiety that Booker has never seen in him, but one that he knows intimately: the soul-ripping fear that accompanies a loved one in peril, made sharper and more jagged by uncertainty. Booker has lived with this time and time again, and the sight of Joe in torment makes his heart ache.It also gives him the tiniest thrill of schadenfreude.Good.Maybe it’s finally time for Joe to suffer this, to fear the loss of the one he loves most, to gain an inkling of understanding of what it’s like to stare down the prospect of eternal solitude. Maybe it will make him more human.He hates himself for the thought, but it curls around him like smoke, suffocating his compassion.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 42
Kudos: 202





	you say no, i say repeat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this brutal [prompt](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/6403.html?thread=2262787#cmt2262787) from the Kink Meme. 
> 
> Title taken from lyrics to [Tower of Disease](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s4Gvqx-BCiw) by 3TEETH.
> 
> PLEASE. Read the tags. Then read them again. This is in no way for the faint of heart. If you read this without reading the tags, or decide to read it despite the tags, that is entirely on you.

It’s going on three days since the gang had taken Nicky, and the concern amongst the team is reaching a fever pitch. It was the end of the mission, they shouldn’t have still been there, but they were. Andy and Nicky had been gassed, and before Andy could recover, they’d swooped in and taken Nicky captive. 

Joe is beside himself. He blames himself for the capture, distraught that he had been across the property with Booker at the time, rigging crates of illegal weapons with explosives. He’s pacing now, hat in his hands, hair wild, going out of his mind with an anxiety that Booker has never seen in him, but one that he knows intimately: the soul-ripping fear that accompanies a loved one in peril, made sharper and more jagged by uncertainty. Booker has lived with this time and time again, and the sight of Joe in torment makes his heart ache. 

It also gives him the tiniest thrill of schadenfreude. _Good._ Maybe it’s finally time for Joe to suffer this, to fear the loss of the one he loves most, to gain an inkling of understanding of what it’s like to stare down the prospect of eternal solitude. Maybe it will make him more human. 

He hates himself for the thought, but it curls around him like smoke, suffocating his compassion.

Ultimately, it’s Booker who ends up tracking one of the main players’ burners back to an abandoned warehouse in the bad part of town. He wants Nicky back, he does, but all these heinous, sadistic little thoughts keep bubbling to the surface, and he takes quiet, horrifying delight in Joe’s pain. In an attempt to atone, he helps Andy plan the rescue mission, serving as her right hand while Joe struggles to hold his composure. 

“Three days,” he keeps saying as they load magazines, voice heavy, a harbinger of doom. “Three days, Book.”

“Don’t worry, he’s a fighter.” Booker rests a hand on Joe’s shoulder, the insincerity of his tone hovering like flies over a carcass. “We’ll get him back.”

Three days. Joe’s right to be upset, imagination running rampant with every permutation of the things that these sick, evil bastards could be doing to his beloved. They run drugs, they run guns, they run girls: Booker wouldn’t know where to begin to look for the limits to their depravity. 

And for people like this to subdue a captive who cannot die for three days? The knowledge that there’s no way out, no relief to be found in death, only more pain, would feed their vicious inclinations. And Nicky is beautiful, too, incredibly beautiful--anyone would _salivate_ at the sight of such a powerful warrior who looks the way that he does bound at their feet.

Booker shakes himself from such thoughts as they descend upon the warehouse under the cover of darkness. It’s a massive structure, poorly maintained, with the possibility of assailants around every corner, so they have no choice but to split up. Andy takes the third level, Joe, the middle, and Booker stays on the first floor. 

He stares down the sights of his silenced pistol as he carefully moves through barely lit, serpentine halls. The few working lights flicker incessantly, and he has to actively suppress the twitch in his eye. 

The first assailant approaches him from behind, and were Booker anyone else in the world, he might have been quiet enough to successfully use the element of surprise to his benefit. But Booker hears him breathing from down the hall. He lets him come, and just as his would-be assassin raises his hunting knife in hopes of slitting Booker's throat, he moves. Booker turns, presses the silencer to his chest, and pulls the trigger, relishing in the look of genuine surprise in the man’s eyes as he chokes out his final breaths, knife clattering as he sinks to the floor.

The second assailant, he catches off guard, but this one puts up a fight—he kicks Booker in the chest, sending him crashing through a rotten door, unbalanced enough to fall backwards down a flight of stairs. Sharp pain pierces him at various points of contact, some just bruises, others hairline fractures. It’s nothing unbearable, and Booker rolls out of the other’s line of sight as he fires blindly down the stairwell. He grabs his gun, rolls back to where he was, aims, and shoots. The assailant cries out, grabbing his arm, and Booker scrambles to his feet, running halfway up the stairs to intercept him before he can alert the others. He takes his head in one of his hands and smashes it against the wall, bloodlust rearing its head within him as his skull cracks like an egg. He catches his breath as he watches the macabre ooze of blood and bits of bone and tissue drip slowly down the cinderblock wall. 

The basement is even dimmer than the first floor, but Booker notices a door at the base of the stairs. He pushes it open with his silencer. Met with only pitch black and silence, he clicks on the torch on top of his pistol, sweeping the light across narrow halls. Nothing, just water stained floors and crumbling walls, rusted pieces of old manufacturing equipment...then there’s another door. He approaches, stomach flipping at the sight of the heavy chain and padlock barring entry.

Or exit.

He shoots the lock off in a single go, then yanks the chain through the handle and walks in. 

The room is barren, save a single, filthy bulb on the ceiling, and a strange, table-like apparatus that serves as a prison to a limp body, naked except for a wicked-looking black mask locked onto his head.

Nicky.

Booker lowers his pistol, heart hammering as he advances on the display before him. Nicky’s body is stretched across the table, bent obscenely at the waist. His wrists are chained over his head, while his ankles are shackled to two of the table’s legs, holding him open, forcing vulnerability. There’s a thick puddle of congealing, pearly goo on the floor between his feet, and a cursory glance upwards reveals trembling thighs slicked nearly to the knees with what appears to be copious amounts of semen.

Booker lets out a long exhale. He pauses, fighting the dark pang of arousal in his gut to swallow audibly and whisper, “Nicky?”

Nicky doesn’t move, but a little sob escapes the mask. Booker tries again. “Nicky?”

No response. Booker takes in the straps and padlocks on the mask, wondering if there is only one key or several for his confines. To their credit, his captors had thought of it all: the only way to conquer someone as powerful as Nicky is by completely locking him down.

Booker gets closer, his own footsteps deafening in his ears. Nicky doesn’t acknowledge his presence in any way, but his back is rising and falling with the quickness of conscious breath, fear pouring off of him in heady, bitter waves. He must not be able to see or hear through that thing on his head, but he can breathe--Booker can hear him breathing.

He stands at the head of the table and brazenly takes Nicky’s head in his hands. Nicky’s body tenses, and a sharp gasp fills the room. He is well and truly helpless, spread out like the spoils of war, available to anyone, any time.

_Christ._

Booker sets his head back down gently and listens for the sound of approaching footsteps, not too distant gunfire. Nothing yet. 

He has time.

He circles the table, raking his eyes over every inch of Nicky’s perfect body. And it is perfect: strong and broad, soft in the right places. His gaze lingers on muscular thighs spread wide, sticky with other men’s release, the inviting swell of his plush rear.

Booker cups himself through his pants, shame dissolving beneath the crush of his arousal. He’s been hard since he walked through the door, there’s no use denying it, for these awful men have inadvertently delivered Booker one of his most verboten desires. He has never spoken of it, and tries not to think about it, because Nicky is his family, and Joe is his best friend, a brother in soul if not in blood, but it persists, making a home within the darkest parts of him.

He wants Nicky. He’s wanted Nicky for almost a hundred years now. Maybe more.

Were Booker born earlier, or Nicky later, Booker thinks they could have been lovers. But that’s a useless thought, it could never be, not with the way things are, and Booker wouldn’t even want to try. Joe and Nicky are practically the same person, bonded through an incomprehensible amount of years together, their love so deep and unshakable that no one with anything resembling sense would go near it. It’s beautiful, truly, and Booker wishes he didn’t begrudge Joe this love, but he does. What makes Joe so special, that he is the one blessed with Nicky, body and soul, while Booker rots, alone, at the bottom of a bottle? It’s childish, and it doesn’t serve him, but rationale flees him as he chooses to explore the unwilling gift set before him. 

He holsters his pistol and rubs a hand over Nicky’s ass. Nicky sucks in a breath, struggling, but the bonds hold him. Booker kneads him apart, throbbing with desire at the sight of his perfect asshole, thoroughly fucked and enticing, little rivulets of come escaping as he clenches and unclenches under Booker's scrutiny.

Booker wants to lean in, taste him there, but the evidence of those who had already taken his body deters him.

A door at the back of the room bangs opens, startling Booker from his reverie. One of the gang members strolls in, eyes going wide. Before he can make heads or tails of the situation, Booker draws his pistol and fires three rounds into his chest. Nicky gasps and the table groans under the force of his resistance. 

Booker walks over to the intruder and kicks his leg, unsurprised to find it limp and unresponsive. The stench of burning flesh rises from the bullet holes as Booker's eyes catch on a ring of keys attached to his belt buckle. Ah.

Nicky makes a sound, like he’s trying to speak, but something’s in his mouth. Booker bends down for the keys. Nicky’s head perks up, hopeful that he’s been found, and Booker considers turning on his radio to alert Andy and Joe. He considers doing the right thing. 

But a memory of a night that Booker tries not to ponder often floats across his mind’s eye. They were in the safe house just outside Istanbul, cramped as it is, and Andy was out for the night. Booker had been piss-drunk, content to drown in his own misery and self-loathing. Joe and Nicky thought he’d passed out, and hadn’t bothered closing the door to the bedroom before becoming intimate with one another. Booker had hidden himself in darkness and watched, seething with jealousy, as Joe made love to Nicky.

_“Shhh.” Joe whispered into Nicky’s hair, smiling as he hitched a long leg over his hip. “Everyone will hear you, ya habib albi.”_

_Nicky’s kiss-swollen lips parted around a breathy, aroused laugh. He stroked Joe’s face, scratching and tugging at his beard until Joe laughed, too. “How do you expect me to be quiet when you are so deep inside of me that I can feel you in my throat?”_

_Joe groaned at that, smile fading as he rolled his hips forward, conjuring a pretty arch from Nicky’s spine and a throaty moan from his lips. Booker reached into his pants as he watched Nicky undulate against Joe, rocking up to take each powerful thrust, fingers clutching at Joe’s straining biceps. It wasn’t so much the lewd position of Nicky’s body that drove Booker nearly mad with desire, but the sight of his face: that usually calm, controlled expression utterly shattered by unbridled pleasure, his love and lust for Joe radiating off of him with every furrow of his brow, every contortion of his lips, every flash in his eyes._

_Nicky had flipped the script, too, when it suited him. He grabbed onto Joe and reversed their positions in a display of strength that had Joe gasping in delight, knocking him onto his back without uncoupling. Booker hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away as Nicky rode him, muscles rippling, gorgeous whimpers and moans falling from his lips with abandon as his thick cock drooled onto Joe’s stomach._

_Joe’s hands had wandered everywhere, touching as much of that exquisite body as he could, and Booker’s jealousy flared--how many times had he been able to touch him like that? Had he committed each inch of his skin to memory? His eyes burned covetous trails in the wake of Joe’s palms as they caressed Nicky’s sides, his chest, fingers intertwining with Nicky’s as his free hand wrapped around his beloved’s arousal. Nicky had come shortly after that, and the gorgeous spectacle of his orgasm had pushed Booker over the edge: the spasm in his muscles, the vein popping in his neck, the blush blooming from his cheekbones down to his chest, the sinful “o” of perfect lips around cries of ecstasy…_

That night now pales in comparison to this: Nicky stripped bare, at Booker’s mercy.

He slips the keys into his pocket. There can’t be much time left, and he won’t waste another second of it wondering _what if?_ Or _should I..?_

He shouldn’t, but he will. He will never know Nicky’s heart, but he will have his body, just this once. No one will ever know. What’s one more, after all Nicky has endured? And Booker will not be rough, he will not inflict pain--in fact, he wants Nicky to enjoy it, as much as he can. 

With a shaky breath, he finds himself behind Nicky, pants pushed down around his thighs. He gives himself three quick strokes, so delirious with the imminent prospect of being inside of Nicky that he almost comes in his hand. He pulls at Nicky’s hole with his thumb, rubbing some residual release around his rim, gut clenching at the sight of Nicky’s body yielding instinctively under his touch. 

Nicky thrashes and lets out a sound of dismay, trying to tighten his hole, close himself to Booker’s advances. Booker strokes a soothing hand down his back before gathering saliva in his mouth and spitting into his palm. He wants to tell him not to worry as he slicks his cock, but once he starts talking, he’s afraid he won’t be able to stop. The self-loathing ingrained in what’s left of Booker’s soul takes a brief backseat to overwhelming excitement as he rubs his wet cock against Nicky’s soft, pliant opening, once, twice, then he’s pushing in—

He squeezes his eyes shut as waves of untold pleasure wash over him. Nicky’s body is heaven, tight and wet and blood-hot. Nicky groans, hands balling into fists. He bucks, like he wants to shove Booker off, but it only serves to push him in further. 

“Oh, Nicky,” he whispers, barely audible, committing every sensation to memory as he pulls out, just a little, before stroking deep. He’s beautiful, and Booker is stricken by the desire to see his face, hear the full repertoire of those wonderful noises he can’t seem to stop making. But he can’t, so he settles for resting his chest against Nicky’s back, caressing his hands down strong biceps as he inhales the scent of his sweat and presses hot, wet kisses to the sticky skin at the base of his neck.

Nicky’s back goes ramrod straight, head whipping around wildly, despite his lack of sight. Booker immediately pulls back. His other attackers likely hadn’t kissed him, or showed mercy of any kind. Booker might have gone too far here, giving something away that he cannot undo.

Any dread that materializes at that prospect melts in the heat that licks up Booker’s spine with the next thrust. He digs his fingers into Nicky’s hips, yanking that perfect ass back against his pelvis, until Nicky lets out a lengthy groan that could easily be misconstrued as pleasure, like he might come from this.

Booker _needs_ to make him come.

Possessed by the thought, Booker reaches his slick hand around to grab Nicky’s half-hard cock. It’s only a reflex, Booker knows this, but that doesn’t stop his blood from thrumming with the primal satisfaction of feeling Nicky’s body react to him with pleasure. 

The chains holding Nicky down rattle as his back arches and he bucks into Booker’s hand, another sweetly nebulous noise escaping the confines of his mask. Booker readjusts his hips until Nicky shouts, then speeds up his pace, just a bit.

Nicky’s hole tightens as his cock spits more fluid into Booker's hand. Booker curses, louder than intended, wrist aching as he jerks Nicky faster, addicted to the steady spurts of arousal slicking his palm, the noises of pleasure-pain escaping Nicky’s throat, the maddening climb towards his impending orgasm growing more urgent by the second. 

Then, in slow motion, right before Booker’s eyes, Nicky loses control: pretty hands twist around nothing, and his body convulses like he’s been shocked. He lets out a series of lovely little cries before seizing up and coming with a shudder all over Booker's hand and the table.

Booker _burns_ at the sight, sweat beading on his brow as he fucks Nicky through it, wringing every last, sweet drop of spunk from his heavenly body until all the tension leaves Nicky’s back and he slumps forward, gasping for breath. Booker bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, mind going staticky around the edges as he thrusts in deep and comes long and hard, lips parting noiselessly as he pulses hot and thick inside Nicky’s orgasm-loose body.

He stands there, panting, longing to stay inside Nicky forever. But he’s spent too much time here already. The others will find him soon, and he can’t have that. He pulls out and tucks himself into his pants, savoring the sight of his semen dribbling out of Nicky’s puffy little hole. He brings his dirty hand to his lips and flicks out his tongue, just one taste. Nicky is delicious, just as he’d known, and a cold shroud of shame settles over him, not only for the fact that he’d indulged himself in such an unspeakable violation, but also because he had loved every second of it.

He walks over to the cooling corpse and turns it onto its side so he can wipe the rest of Nicky down the front of its shirt, then shoots it two more times before dropping his torso so it thuds against the floor. He pulls out his radio, flicks it on, clears his throat, and says, “I got him. He’s in the basement.”

Andy and Joe are down there in seconds, guns drawn, fresh blood spattered across their haggard faces. Joe blanches and his knees buckle at the sight of Nicky. He rushes over where Booker is fumbling with the keys and yanks them from his hand. 

“Fucking animals,” hisses Andy as she watches Joe free Nicky’s limbs with trembling hands. “Glad you found him, Book.”

“Hmm.” Booker doesn’t meet her eyes, and he feels her study him for a long moment before she approaches the body on the floor.

“Motherfucker tried to run,” says Booker. “Think he just finished, uh…”

“Yeah.” Andy cuts him off, looking profoundly sad before rage flickers in her eyes. She sniffs, hard, and spits on the body.

The heavy mask hits the floor, revealing Nicky's tear stained face, blood and mucus mingling under his nose, eyes wide and haunted. “J-Joe?”

“Nicolo. I’m so sorry, Nicolo.” Joe caresses Nicky’s face lightly, and Nicky closes his eyes and lets out a sob as he leans into Joe’s hand. He babbles out a frantic string of Arabic, voice breaking before he dissolves into tears. Joe presses their foreheads together, allowing his heart to shatter openly across his face before helping his beloved to his feet.

Nicky’s legs are weak, stiff, and Andy quickly throws his other arm over her shoulders, steadying him. Booker’s guts squirm with the heinous knowledge of what he’d done, so he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around Nicky's naked body.

“Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse. He looks at the body on the floor, frowns a bit, then his gaze locks onto Booker. A realization passes across his face, and Booker can’t place it, but it’s uncomfortable, like Nicky knows he’s missing a piece to the puzzle that he doesn’t want to find. “Thank you for finding me.”

“We have to get him out of here,” says Joe urgently before Booker can answer, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Now.”

“Let’s go,” says Booker gruffly, desperate to leave this place, to shake off the accusatory weight of Nicky’s gaze. He charges ahead, unable to meet anyone’s eyes as fresh memories of the gorgeous clutch of Nicky’s body, the taste of his release, linger in the forefront of his mind like ghosts.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it through this, thank you for coming on this dark journey with me. This was painful and cathartic and a joy to write for many reasons, largely because the vast possibilities of various dynamics between these wonderful characters are just impossible to resist exploring, no matter how fucked up. 
> 
> I love your comments, if you found anything enjoyable or interesting about this, I'd love to hear it. Thank you again for reading!
> 
> PS: Here is my [tungle,](http://whoreschach.tumblr.com/) if you're into it.


End file.
